‘The prisoner is guilty, your majesty,’ said Anthony. ‘It remains for you to pass sentence.’
And this, Duncan knew, was the part of being King that they never prepared you for. There was the loyalty, the adulation, the power and the ceremony. There was luxury and fine foods and wines and the best clothes and horses and weapons.
And then there were the moments when one paid for all of those things. Moments like this, when the law must be upheld. When tradition must be preserved. When the dignity and power of the office must be protected even if, by so doing, he would destroy one of his most valued friends.
‘The law sets down only two possible punishments for treason, your majesty,’ Anthony was prompting again, knowing how Duncan was hating every minute of this.
‘Yes. Yes. I know,’ Duncan muttered angrily, but not soon enough to stop Anthony in his next statement.
‘Death or banishment. Nothing less,’ the Chamberlain intoned solemnly. And, as he said the words, Duncan felt a small thrill of hope in his chest.
‘Those are the choices, Lord Anthony?’ he asked mildly, wishing to be sure. Anthony nodded gravely.
‘There are no others. Death or banishment only, your majesty.’
Slowly, Duncan stood, taking the sword in his right hand. He held it out in front of him, grasping the scabbard in his right hand below the intricately carved and inlaid crosspiece. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction. He had asked Anthony twice, to make sure. To make sure that the Chamberlain’s exact words were heard by the witnesses in the throne room.
‘Halt.’ He spoke firmly, feeling every eye in the room upon him. ‘Former King’s Ranger to the Redmont Fief, I hereby, as lord of this realm of Araluen, declare you to be banished from all my lands and holdings.’
Again, there was that small intake of breath throughout the room, as the listeners felt the relief of knowing that the sentence was not to be death. Not, he realised, that any of those present would have expected it to be. But now came the part they weren’t expecting.
‘You are forbidden, under pain of death, to set foot in this Kingdom again …’ He hesitated, seeing now the sadness in Halt’s eyes, the pain that the greying Ranger could no longer hide. Then he completed his statement:
‘… for the period of one year from this day.’
Instantly, there was uproar in the throne room. Lord Anthony started forward, the shock evident on his face.
‘Your Majesty! I must protest! You can’t do this!’
Duncan kept his face solemn. Others in the room were not quite so controlled. Baron Arald’s face, he saw, was creased in a broad smile, while Crowley was doing his best to hide a grin in the grey cowl of his Ranger’s cloak. Duncan noted with a grim sense of satisfaction that, for the first time this morning, Halt was somewhat startled by the turn of events. But not nearly so much as the loudly protesting Lord Anthony. The King looked at the Chamberlain, his eyebrows raised in question.
‘Can’t, Lord Anthony?’ he queried, with great dignity. Anthony hurriedly retracted the statement, realising that it was not his part to issue orders to the King.
‘I mean, your majesty … banishment is … well, it’s banishment,’ he concluded lamely. Duncan nodded gravely.
‘Quite so,’ he replied. ‘And, as you told me yourself, it’s one of only two choices that I can make.’
‘But, your majesty, banishment is … it’s total! It’s for life!’ Anthony protested. His face was red with embarrassment. He bore Halt no ill feeling. In fact, up until the Ranger had been arrested for scandalising the King’s reputation, Anthony had felt a distinct admiration for him. But it was his job, after all, to advise the King on matters of law and propriety.
‘The law stipulates that specifically, does it?’ Duncan asked now and Anthony shook his head and made a helpless gesture with his hands, very nearly losing his grip on his staff of office in the process.
‘Well, not specifically, no. It doesn’t need to. Banishment has always been for life. It’s traditional!’ he added, finding the words he was looking for.
‘Exactly,’ replied Duncan. ‘And tradition is not law.’
‘But …’ Anthony began, then found himself wondering why he was protesting so much. Duncan had, after all, found a way to punish Halt, but at the same time to leaven that punishment with mercy.
The King saw the hesitation and took the initiative.
‘The matter is settled. Banished, prisoner, for twelve months. You have forty-eight hours to leave the borders of Araluen.’
Duncan’s gaze met Halt’s one last time. The Ranger’s head inclined slightly, in a mark of respect and gratitude to his King. Duncan sighed. He had no idea why Halt had forced this situation upon them all. Perhaps, sometime after the next year had passed, he might find out. Suddenly, he felt a welling up of distaste for the whole matter. He shoved the scabbarded sword through his belt.
‘This matter is completed,’ he told those assembled. ‘This court is closed.’
He turned and left the throne room, exiting through a small anteroom on the left. Anthony surveyed those assembled and shrugged his shoulders.
‘The King has spoken,’ he said, his tone suggesting how overwhelmed he was by the whole thing. ‘The prisoner is banished for a twelvemonth. Escort, take him away.’
And so saying, he followed the King out of the throne room.
Evanlyn watched with growing irritation as Will completed another lap of the beach, then dropped to the ground and performed a rapid ten pushups.
She couldn’t understand why he persisted with this ridiculous exercise programme. If it were simply a matter of keeping fit, she might have accepted it – after all, there was little enough to do on Skorghijl and it was one way of keeping busy. But she sensed it was tied to a deeper reason. In spite of their conversation some days earlier, she was sure he still had plans to escape.
‘Stubborn, pig-headed idiot,’ she muttered. It was just like a boy, she thought. He couldn’t seem to accept that she, a girl, could take charge of things and arrange their return to Araluen. She frowned. It wasn’t the way Will had behaved in Celtica. When they were planning the destruction of Morgarath’s massive bridge, he seemed to welcome her input and ideas. She wondered why he had changed.
As she watched, Will moved down the beach to the water’s edge, where Svengal was rowing the wolfship’s skiff back to shore. The Skandian second in command was a keen fisherman. He took the skiff out most mornings, weather permitting, and the fresh cod and sea bass that he caught in Skorghijl harbour’s deep, cold waters made a welcome change to their diet of salted meat and fish and stringy vegetables.
She watched with a small pang of jealousy as Will spoke to the Skandian. She didn’t have Will’s easy manner with people, she knew. He had an open, friendly attitude that made it easy for him to strike up a conversation with anyone he met. People seemed to instinctively like him. She, on the other hand, often felt awkward and ill at ease with strangers and they seemed to sense it. It didn’t occur to her that this might be a result of her upbringing as a princess. And because she was in a mood to resent Will this morning, the sight of him helping Svengal haul the little skiff up past the high tide mark simply increased her annoyance.
She kicked angrily at a rock on the beach, swore when it turned out to be bigger and more solidly anchored than she had expected and limped off to the lean-to, where she would be spared the sight of Will and his new friend.
‘Any luck?’ Will asked, posing the question that every fisherman in history has been asked. Svengal jerked his head at the pile of fish in the bottom of the boat.
‘Got one beauty there,’ he said. There was a large cod among eight or nine smaller but still respectable fish. Will nodded, impressed.
‘He’s a beauty, all right,’ he said. ‘Need a hand cleaning them?’
The odds were that he would be told to clean the fish anyway. He and Evanlyn were tasked with all the housekeeping, cooking and serving duties. But he wanted to strike
up a conversation with Svengal and this way, he thought, the Skandian might stay and chat while Will worked. Skandians were great chatters, he had noticed, particularly when someone else was busy.
‘Help yourself,’ the big Skandian said easily, tossing a small fish knife onto the pile of fish. He sat on the bulwark of the skiff as Will lifted the fish out and began the messy work of scaling, gutting and cleaning. Will had known Svengal would stay. He knew that the Skandian would want to carry the huge cod to the hut himself. Fishermen loved praise.
‘Svengal,’ Will said, concentrating on scaling a bass and making sure his voice sounded casual, ‘why don’t you go fishing at the same time each day?’
‘The tide, boy,’ Svengal replied. ‘I like to fish the tide when it’s rising. It brings the fish into the harbour, you see.’
‘The tide? What’s that?’ Will asked. Svengal shook his head at the Araluan boy’s ignorance of natural things.
‘Haven’t you noticed how the water in the harbour gets higher and then lower during the day?’ he asked. When Will nodded, he went on, ‘That’s the tide. It comes in and it goes out. But each day, it happens a little later than the day before.’
Will frowned. ‘But where does it go out to?’ he asked. ‘And where does it come from in the first place?’
Svengal scratched his beard thoughtfully. This wasn’t something he had ever bothered to pursue. The tide was simply a fact of his life as a sailor. The why and where he left to other people.
‘They say it’s because of the Great Blue Whale,’ he said, remembering the fable he had heard as a child. Seeing Will’s incomprehension, he continued. ‘I suppose you don’t know what a whale is either?’ He sighed at the boy’s blank expression. ‘A whale is a giant fish.’
‘As big as the cod?’ Will said, indicating the pride of Svengal’s catch. The sea wolf laughed in genuine amusement.
‘A good bit bigger than that, boy. Quite a bit.’
‘As big as a walrus, then?’ Will asked. There was a colony of the lumbering animals on the rocks at the southern end of the anchorage and he had learned the name from one of the crew. Svengal’s grin widened even further.
‘Even bigger. Normal whales are as big as houses. Huge things, they are. But the Great Blue Whale is something else again. He’s as big as one of your castles. He breathes the water in and then spits it out through a hole in the top of his head.’
‘I see,’ Will said carefully. Some comment seemed to be necessary.
‘So,’ Svengal continued patiently, ‘when he breathes in, the tide goes out. Then he spits it out again –’
‘Through a hole in the top of his head?’ Will said. He began to clean the cod. This all seemed far too fantastic – fish with holes in their heads that breathed water in and out. Svengal frowned at the interruption, and the note of disbelief he detected in Will’s tone.
‘Yes. Through a hole in the top of his head. When he does that, the tide comes back in again. He does it twice a day.’
‘So why doesn’t he do it at the same time every day?’ Will asked and Svengal showed a further flash of annoyance. Truth be told, he had no idea. The legend hadn’t covered this point.
‘Because he’s a whale, boy! And whales can’t tell what time it is, can they?’ Irritably, he grabbed the string of cleaned fish, making sure that he had the knife as well, and stalked off up the beach, leaving Will to wash the fish blood and scales off his hands.
Erak was sitting on a bench outside the eating hall as Svengal came up the beach.
‘Nice cod,’ he said and Svengal nodded briefly. Erak jerked a thumb in Will’s direction and added, ‘What was all that about?’
‘What? Oh, the boy? We were just talking about the Great Blue Whale,’ Svengal replied.
Erak rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Really? How did you get onto that subject?’
Svengal paused, thinking back on the conversation. Finally, he said, ‘He just wanted to know about the tide, that was all.’ He waited to see if Erak had anything further to say, then shrugged and went inside.
‘Did he now?’ Erak said to himself. The boy was going to need watching, he thought.
For the next few hours, he remained outside the hut, to all appearances dozing in the sun. But his eyes followed the apprentice Ranger wherever he went. Several hours later, he saw the boy tossing pieces of driftwood into the water, then watching them as the receding tide took them out to sea.
‘Interesting,’ the wolfship skipper muttered to himself. Then he noticed that Will was standing and peering under his hand at the harbour entrance. Erak followed the direction of his gaze and stood up in surprise.
Listing heavily to one side, lying low in the water and crabbing with an uneven complement of oars, a wolfship was dragging itself into the bay.
The grey-clad rider hunched miserably inside his cloak as he rode slowly through the misting rain that swept across the fields. The hooves of his two horses – one a saddle horse and the other serving as a lightly laden pack horse – clopped wetly in the puddles that had gathered in the undulations of the road.
Behind him as he reached a crest, the towers and spires of Castle Araluen soared into the grey sky. But Halt didn’t look back at the magnificent sight. His gaze was set forward.
He heard the two riders following him long before they caught up. Abelard’s ears twitched at the sound of the drumming hoof beats and Halt knew his small horse had recognised the other two as Ranger horses. Still he didn’t look back. He knew who the two riders would be. And he knew why they were coming. He felt a small shaft of disappointment. He had hoped that, in the confusion and sorrow over his banishment, Crowley had forgotten the one small item that Halt would now have to surrender.
Sighing and accepting the inevitable, he touched Abelard’s reins lightly. The highly trained Ranger horse responded instantly, coming to a halt. Behind them, the pack horse did the same. The hoof beats grew closer and he sat, staring dully ahead, as Crowley and Gilan reined in beside him.
The four horses nickered gently in greeting to each other. The three men were a little more reserved. There was an unpleasant silence between them, finally broken by Crowley.
‘Well, Halt, you got away early. We had to ride hard to catch up to you,’ he said, striving for a false heartiness that concealed his misery at the way events had turned out. Halt glanced incuriously at the two other horses. Steam rose gently from them in the cold damp air.
‘I can see that,’ he replied calmly. He tried to ignore the anguish on Gilan’s young face. He knew that his former apprentice would be suffering deeply because of his inexplicable actions and he hardened his heart to shut the young Ranger’s sorrow out.
Now Crowley lost his heartiness as well. His face grew serious and troubled.
‘Halt, there is one thing you may have forgotten. I’m sorry to have to insist but …’ He hesitated. Halt tried to play the scene out to the bitter end, assuming a puzzled expression.
‘I have forty-eight hours to leave the Kingdom,’ he replied. ‘The time started from dawn this morning. I’ll make it clear of the border by then. There’s no need for you to escort me.’
Crowley shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Halt saw Gilan drop his gaze to the road. This was simply causing pain to all of them. He knew what Crowley had come for. He reached inside his cloak to the silver chain around his throat.
‘I had rather hoped you might forget,’ he said, trying to make his voice light. But there was a catch in his throat that belied the effort. Sadly, Crowley shook his head.
‘You know you can’t keep the Oakleaf, Halt. As a person under banishment, you’re automatically expelled from the Corps as well.’
Halt nodded. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes as he unclasped the chain and passed the small silver amulet to the Ranger Commandant. The metal was still warm from contact with his body. His vision blurred as he saw it coiled in Crowley’s palm. Such a small piece of bright metal, he thought, and y
et it meant so much to him. He had worn the Oakleaf, with the intense pride that all Rangers felt, for the greater part of his life. And now, it was no longer his.
‘I’m sorry, Halt,’ Crowley said miserably. Halt lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
‘It’s a small matter,’ he said.
Again, a silence fell between them. Crowley’s eyes looked into his, trying to penetrate the veil that Halt held in place there. A veil of uncaring, unfeeling acceptance of the situation. It was a sham, but it was a superbly maintained one. Finally the Commandant leaned towards him in the saddle, gripping Halt’s forearm tightly.
‘Why, Halt? Why did you do it?’ he asked fiercely. Again, that infuriating shrug of the shoulders.
‘As I said,’ Halt replied, ‘too much brandy spirit. You know I could never hold my liquor, Crowley.’
He actually managed a smile at that. It felt ghastly on his face, like a death’s head grin. Crowley released his arm and sat back, shaking his head in disappointment.
‘Godspeed, Halt,’ he said finally, in a voice that broke with emotion. Then, with an uncharacteristically rough jerk of his reins, Crowley wheeled his horse’s head and galloped away, back along the road to Castle Araluen.
Halt watched him go, the mottled Ranger cloak soon almost lost in the misting rain. Then he turned to his former apprentice. He smiled sadly, and this time the smile and the sadness were genuine.
‘Goodbye, Gilan. I’m glad you came to farewell me.’
But the younger Ranger shook his head defiantly.
‘I’m not here to farewell you,’ he said roughly. ‘I’m coming with you.’ Halt raised one eyebrow. It was an expression so familiar to Gilan that it tore at his heart to see it.
Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup Page 5
